ire the one motor
which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris.
There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I
have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the
parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music
may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And
in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church,
which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual
tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply
using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it
to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say
they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the
kind--They believe in material things, and in the "_beau geste_." Where
they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile
they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables
philosophically. _Vive la France!_

* * * * *

I am waiting for the motor now--and trying to be resigned.--Mass did me
good--I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told
me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time--I dare say it looked
much the same, only dirtier--And life was made up with etiquette and
forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were
ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.

A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked
at me and my crutch sympathetically.

"_Blesse de la guerre_," I heard her whisper to her mother--"_Comme
Jean_."

The organ was not bad--and before I came out I felt calmer.

After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette--She
must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are
Suzettes--and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way--What can
have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it
would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it
matter to her?--As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion
arises in me--I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the
trenches again and must not complain.

I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her
to dine with me to-night--Coralie always pretended to have a _beguin_
for me--even when most engaged elsewhere.

*